Archive for June, 2009

So here’s the story. The girl on the right is suing the tattoo artist on the left, claiming that she asked for 3 little stars on her face but ended up with 56.

Kimberly, 18, said she fell asleep while she was being tattooed. What a liar! Even if she isn’t lying, and she is, anyone who’d let that guy near them with a needle is out of their fucking mind.

Here’s another question. Should I have used “whom” in the title instead of “who?” I have no idea. When I don’t like the sound of “whom,” I don’t use it. That’s the rule I follow.

But I came across a blog whose authors are probably very nice girls, where a pair of old photos of Mick and Bianca Jagger is captioned: “how incredible are bianca and mick…I can’t decide whom I like best.” Is this good grammar? Mick, whom do you like best, Bianca or yourself?

In any case, one of the commenters noted: “I think it’s seeing the both of them together that makes my heart race.”

I think this is even better than smitten, or “that sweater stole my heart!”

It makes my heart race when I discover new phrases to bother people with, or rather, with which to bother people.

I was surprised to hear that Chastity Bono is changing her gender. It’s hard for me to give up the idea that Chastity was just trying to get even with her mom. It’s harder and harder to link behavior to psychology. Now we attribute everything to genetics. Good luck, Chaz!

Today I was telling a friend how an old Pearl Jam video aroused my lust for the young Eddie Vedder. If only he would fuck my fucking brains out! She knew exactly what I meant. We wondered if men feel like this 100 times a day. Isn’t that what “studies” say?

I wish I could be a man for a couple of hours, just to know what it’s like. Here’s how I imagine it.

~

Okay, wow, I’m a guy! This is so weird. Where’s my dick? Is it okay? Is it really okay? Is it big enough? I hope so. I hope it’s bigger than every other dick, or at least not smaller.

Oooh, there’s a chick. Look at those boobs! And she’s got a vagina! I wonder what it looks like! They’re all different, like snowflakes. I have to see as many as possible. How can I get access to that one?

Never mind, there goes another chick. Ugh, no thanks. I hate the fat ones. Take it away!

Hm, that guy has a nicer car. I hope my dick is bigger than his. Is my dick okay? Is it protected from everything? I wish I could feel it right now.

Oh now, my girlfriend is texting me. Why do they always need to talk? Why do I have to listen and comment on every little thing that pops into her head! Christ. This is torture. I just want to go back to what I was doing, but she needs to “communicate.”

I wonder what the score is? I wish I knew which team is ahead. Is there another guy around somewhere? He’ll know. Man, those Lakers! What a game. Too bad the season’s over, though. Wait. Is my dick okay?

I think I’ll listen to some Clapton. Or maybe Coltrane. Boy, another beer would be great. Is my dick okay? I hope so. How can I get a blowjob? I’d give anything….On no. It’s the girlfriend and she wants to talk. She’s ruining the Clapton solo. Damn her. I hope this will end in a blowjob. Is my dick okay?

With the help of my webmaster, I am able to offer all bloggers* this handy symbol of assurance that no hand-to-face poses will appear on your blog, except in cases of mockery or irony.

Please feel free to copy this image and use with confidence! If you like it, give a shout out to Charlie over here. Certain restrictions apply, blah blah blah, just don’t ask me what they are, I’m not a lawyer.

If only I had an income, I would have to buy this embroidered silk biker jacket. It is not just unconventional, but it immediately reminded me of Gram Parsons and his white Nudie suit on the first Burrito Brothers album.

The jacket is at farfetch, by Laura Lees, for only $304! Whoever Laura Lees is, I salute her. Here’s a close-up of some embroidery on another one of her designs.

Oooooh! Do you love it or do you love it?!

Well, fuck. I have no money but if you’re a wealthy stalker, I’m a size small. Let’s take our minds off shopping by listening to the poignant raw beauty of Gram’s voice. Gone but never, ever forgotten.

Still under the influence of bad hair, I was informed by KOS of an online fashion mag whose editor is 15 years old. Sure enough, it’s all about high-priced ‘avant garde’ designers and models whose hands are THIS CLOSE to touching their faces, with text like “combining armorial pieces with organic materials…” Wait a minute, do they really mean armorial, which means “pertaining to heraldry” or do they mean “armor-like?”

Take a look at the young Sister Wolf, a poor little hippie girl at age 14. Check the velvet thriftshop dress, the crown of daisies, the elegant cigarette.

Do I know what I’m talking about, people?!

All you horrible teenage fashion girls, listen up. Stop blabbing about Rodarte and Rad Hourani and your fucking shoes and your mom’s shoes, go out and smell the roses! Put them in your hair and buy a pack of fucking cigarettes! Find a new way to be pretentious, for the love of god! I hate all of you! This is why it’s so hard to get a babysitter!

These girls are too busy talking about “leggy cashmere playsuits” and not spending enough time experimenting with drugs. Better to be sexting with their BF’s than squandering their precious youth on being epic in their fierce wedges and expounding on the timelessness of the Birkin bag.

Two words for you girls: Shut Up. (I was going to say “Try Anal,” but then I thought better of it.)

When I’m not happy with my hair, nothing else matters. I am acutely fixated on the not-goodness of my hair. I tried lightening it to a brown color, forgetting how stubborn my hair is about staying black. It is now a patchy brown and black with gold streaks. It is dry and dull looking. Hair hair hair hair hair hair hair hair.

My husband says I’m just tripping, my hair looks fine. Today I saw my brother-in-law who observed: “I like your hair better black!” before I even had time to register my hair complaint.

Nothing I do will ever restore my hair to its former state. I have made a blunder of unfathomable proportions. No one will ever love me again. I am shit. I am less than shit, I am the shit with bad hair. I am a Greek tragedy, taken down by my own vanity like Narcissus. The gods are laughing about my hair. They’re going, “Haha, look what that stupid bitch did to her hair! She asked for it!”

I will spend a fortune that I don’t even have on hair conditioners that promise impossible results. I will scrutinize my hair for signs of breakage. I will hate every woman with shiny hair. (WendyB, put on a turban!) I will be humbled by the bald heads of courageous chemo-therapy patients. Then I will return to feeling bad about my awful brownish hair.

Listen to Mrs. Palin’s reaction to David Letterman’s joke about her buying make-up at Bloomingdale’s to update her “slutty flight-attendant look.”

Oh, Mrs. P, he didn’t mean Bloomingdale’s literally! Now I’m wondering if she’s even capable of finding her way around the Bloomie’s cosmetics department.

Isn’t it fun to have her around again? I wish that if she gives up her bid for the presidency, someone will appoint her our Poet Laureate! She could write poems about the First Dude, she could rhyme Bristol with “pistol,” I don’t know, I just really see it working out well for this great nation of ours.

There is a $35,000 stipend that she could use to buy some closed-toe shoes OR to get a baby sitter for that poor little Trig.

I saw this jacket late at night when I was, ahem, on my sleeping medication. It took me nearly thirty minutes of struggling with Topshop’s login system to make the purchase. At several points during the procedure, I asked my self if perhaps god didn’t want me to buy this jacket. My self was too medicated to ponder god’s plan.

The very next day, Queen Michelle wrote about ordering the jacket. Suddenly, everyone and her mother* was wearing this jacket and blogging about it, posing in it triumphantly with their skinnies (and/or touching their faces with one hand.)

Naturally, I dreaded the arrival of the jacket and filled out a return form in anticipation. I didn’t bother to try it on; I didn’t want anything to do with it.

From the top left, bloggers Carla, Betty, and Sea of Shoes’ Mom*.

Let me say that I dress how I please, without regard to trends or age-appropriateness. My personal style is called Geriatric Tomboy . It is based around jeans, men’s shoes, gaudy jewelry and leather jackets. It hasn’t really evolved in 35 years and until I switch over to the mourning attire, who cares anyway.

But I can’t stand the idea of being another chump in this Topshop jacket! It’s just too depressing. Now I’ve got the money back and I can recycle it, buying more pointless crap and torturing myself over my greed and lack of self control. But at least I won’t be wearing that fucking jacket, which -with all due respect – looked pretty cheap in real life.

Now, let’s hear a bunch of sanctimonious objections like “Who cares if everyone else has it, blah blah blah!” or even “I’d rock that jacket anyway!” Someone out there knows exactly what I’m talking about – right?